Cover
by cyrilandshirley
Summary: Mitzeee sees Brendan and Ste saying goodbye.


**Cover **

People think they know me. They think they know all about me, they can put me right in a box. They cop one look at the hair (extensions), the eyelashes (false), the heels (sky high), and they think they know exactly what I am. Glamour girl. WAG-wannabee, and second class at that. OK, if you must, third. Don't rub it in. I'm working on it.

But they don't. They don't know me at all. It's not real, any of this. Well it is, but only parts of it. Half real, and half invented. It doesn't bother me. It's all me. I'm not even sure I can remember which bits I started with and which I invented now.

I'm Mitzeee Minniver by the way (three E's). Except I'm not. She's real Mitzeee, she's me, but I invented her. She serves her purpose, pretty well. She has a great life, Mitzeee, goes where she wants, does what she wants, says what she wants. She's in demand. She has cash in hand. She has a man on her arm at all times. But I'm also Anne. I'm not mad keen on Anne if I'm honest. She lives in some crappy little flat with her Mum, who's sick, and her bills go unpaid. She didn't have a lot going for her, Anne, and she bored me witless. But she did have a brain and an instinct for survival, and she knew she had to go. She's still me. I'm Anne, and I'm Mitzeee. Confused? I'm not. I don't have a problem with any of that.

I know all about front. I might not have got a stack of GCSEs, I didn't see the point, but there's not much anyone can teach me on that subject. As long as I know what's real, that's all that matters. But other people aren't quite so sharp, I've found.

I've got this reputation for being a bit of a goss-merchant. It's not strictly true. Now, don't get me wrong, I like to get the low-down and dirty, same as anyone. I read the magazines at the hairdresser's, and there's things I like to know. The state of the Beckham brand, the diameter of Posh's sunglasses, and her waistline. Colleen's latest bag and bracelet combo, and how to get it high street for less than thirty quid. The current line-up, bust-ups, and future touring plans of Girls Aloud. The size of Simon Cowell's bank balance, and the exact state of his current marriage. This is need to know stuff. And I need to know it. And I'm happy to discuss it, if you want. But I'm not a gossip. I'm more of a collector than a kiss-and-tell, know what I mean? They say knowledge is power, don't they? I like that. Once you know something, there's no telling what you might be able to do with it. So, I like to think of myself as more of a detective really. I don't mind people talking about me, though. In fact, I love it. You're nothing if you're not in the papers. I spend most of my life trying to get people to talk about me. The only bad publicity is no publicity, I say. So as long as they're talking about me, and I'm learning about them, that's fine. That's the way I like it.

Everyone has secrets, don't they? It's people who kid themselves, pretend to live perfect lives, who make me sick. People like my cousin, Heidi. With her perfect house, just so, and her perfect family, and her perfect bleeding husband. I look at her sometimes and she's like a bit of old Ryvita. If she stopped believing in it, all so perfect, she'd crumble away to nothing. Funny how brittle it all turned out to be. Her lovely daughter, wanting to be her lovely son. Glenda wanting to be Glenn, if you catch my drift. Poor kid. As if life wasn't messed up enough. And then her useless husband, never able to keep his hands to himself, however blind she decided to be. He couldn't with me, and from the looks of the way he follows that barmaid around with his tongue dragging along the ground, nothing's changed. I look at her and I despise her, because she won't let herself see what's real, and what's not. She's like a woman dancing on a volcano, and one day, it'll swallow her. I hope I'm around to see it when it does.

Information is my currency. It's my passport, my payday. I've learned to keep my eyes and ears open, my smile at the ready, and my gob clamped shut – unless it suits me otherwise. And I sure as hell got a nice little payout today.

I only went in for a pick-me-up, nice big glass of white, because I was having a bit of a mare. Venue for my photoshoot only went and bailed on me. Nice classy car showroom, nothing tacky. Run by a friend of mine. He said his wife didn't like the idea. Funny how he didn't seem so bothered when we were getting acquainted in the back seat of a brand new Saab 9-5 in that showroom after hours. Not sure how he got away with selling it as new after that, but it's amazing what a full valet can do. Anyway, he let me down. They always do, don't they? You have to rely on yourself. I usually do. Anyway, I'd knocked back a couple in the bar of the Student Union (not very classy but they do the club nights there now, better clientele), made a few phone calls, getting nowhere, and I decided to go for a wee and head home. I suppose I mean I needed to relieve myself, but I call a spade a spade. So I went over to the door through to the stairs, where the ladies are. And I stopped.

There were these two men. Well, more one man, one lad, really. On the stairs. I could see them through the glass of these window things they've got going on there. To let the light through, I'd imagine. I was certainly about to be enlightened. Big time.

I would have gone straight through, normally, but there was something about them. They were pressed very close together. I stopped, with my hand on the door handle.

I recognised the fella with his face towards me. Tall guy, nicely put together, bit of a bastard, dark hair, slim hips, nice bum. A mover and a shaker. Not bad looking. Not at all. If you like that kind of thing, and I guess most women do, if you don't mind a bit of Irish charm, and a close encounter of the facial hair variety. Brendan Brady. He owns the club. Well he doesn't, his dippy sister does, but I think we all know who inherited the brain cells in that family. Thinks he's a bit of a ladies man, apparently, though he took me into the office the night the club opened and sod all happened. He gave me the hooded smoky eyes, piled on the sexy blarney and plied me with champagne, but to be honest, he seemed more interested in me online portfolio in the end. Never so much as tried to cop a feel of my tits, and I had a good bra-frock combo on that night. I really should have known. I can't believe I let it get past me.

The other lad, the one with his back to the window, I only knew a bit. Serves in the club. Actually, I remembered him from the night of the opening as well. Brendan knocked him half way across the bar. Took the spotlight right off me, I can tell you. I wasn't happy. He's slim, fair hair. Very nice skin, strokable, like a peach. Thought about asking him what he used, actually, but I suppose it's natural. Not really operating on the full wattage, but nice enough lad, cute smile. Simon? No, Ste. That's it. Ste. I could see the back of his head, his short hair, his neck all bare, part of his profile, his little turned up nose.

He's got his back pressed against this window, and it's almost like … Brendan's got him pinned there. His hands clutch at the lad's clothes, like he wants to shake him. A row? Maybe. He looks upset enough, does Brendan. They both do. It looks like it's the end of the flaming world. And I've never seen him like that before. Normally, he's all face, this guy. He doesn't let his guard down.

And then the lad Ste ducks in and goes right in for a kiss.

A kiss.

Oh _yes_.

I freeze. I know my mouth's fallen open like a guppy, but I don't seem to be able to close it. I realise I'm holding my breath and I don't even know why.

I wonder if there's more to come. Cos it could just be a mistake, a little soft kiss like that. Maybe the kid's just infatuated. But oh, yes, there is. Here it comes.

I can't hear much through the door, but I'm not sure you always need to hear the words to know what two people are saying to each other. Not these two, anyway. It comes through loud and clear. The air vibrates with whatever's coming off them. He sort of breaks away, does Brendan, or he wants to, but it's like they can't pull apart. Their foreheads rest against each other. It's intense. Intimate. No one's getting between these two.

They stay there for a moment, slightly swaying together, suspended in time, like it's never going to end. He strokes the lad's face, cradles his cheek in his hand. He closes his eyes for a second. I think Ste might be crying. Maybe they both are. And then the ladies' man tilts and dips his head, and they move together, just the half inch needed, and then their mouths find each other, lock together. And they're kissing. Their lips open, and meld together, like they need each other to breathe. To live, maybe.

Now I know what a kiss looks like, feels like. I've been kissed plenty, in my time. But I'm not sure I can remember the last time I kissed like that, was kissed like that. Like it's the beginning and the end, like it's everything, like a nuclear bomb could go off, the end of the world, and you'd never notice, cos there's only you and that one other person, and you can't see or hear or feel anything else except their mouth, and their breathing, their heartbeat banging in their chest, and their body pressed up against yours like you are born to be together, like you are the only two people left standing in the world. Like you want it to go on forever, because when it ends, you think you might just die.

Now I'm a practical person, mainly. I don't do messy. It only gets in the way, stuffs things up. But I swear I feel a shiver that I can't explain.

And it's not like me, but I feel I ought to look away. I don't though. I'm not completely convinced I could if I wanted to.

And it does end, eventually. Probably only lasted a few seconds, really. But it felt like a lifetime passed.

They stand there, forehead to forehead again, clinging together, locked in that moment.

And then Brendan stands back. He can't seem to look him in the eye. He says something. It looks like goodbye. I only know because he looks like stone, or like he's trying to be hard, like stone, and Ste shakes his head, like he's protesting. And in the end, I hear a raised voice.

"Get out of my face."

"No …"

"Go … now!"

And that Brendan grabs him by the shoulders, spins him around, and pushes him away, almost throwing the little guy down the last few steps.

I jumped back from the door, my heart pumping like the clappers. I swear I felt a bit shaky with the whole thing. I stepped away sharpish, but kept my eyes open. I could see Ste, just inside the door. He hesitated, his hand to his mouth. His face was crumpled, confused. He waited there, for a second, like he didn't know what to do, like he might run back up those stairs, or maybe he was hoping Brendan would come after him. That'll be what he really wanted. For Brendan to come and get him. We all know what that feels like, don't we? When you want that one person to just come back through the door and scoop you up and say sorry and never let you go. For it not to be over. Even I've been in love. Occasionally.

Then he came through. He didn't stop around. He walked straight through the bar and out through the doors, so no one could see him crying. Poor lad.

Still no sign of the Last of the Ladykillers though. Last I'd glimpsed of him, he'd been slumped back against the wall of the stairwell, his head resting back against the window, like he'd never move again. Gazing up at the ceiling like he wanted something to drop down from heaven and save him. I grabbed a table and turned my back but flipped open my mirror and watched the door behind me like a hawk.

Eventually, he appeared on the other side. He stood there for a moment, like Ste had before him, as if he needed to pull himself together before he came in. Then he squared his shoulders, walked in, and went straight over to where this other guy had been covering at the bar.

"I'll take over," he said. His voice sounded a bit rough. But he got straight to serving the couple of students who were waiting for orders. He seemed completely normal, though he never cracked a smile.

When they were gone, I watched him turn his back as I touched up my lippy. He seemed to stop everything for a moment, lost in thought. He has broad shoulders, this fella, but I'd say they looked a bit slumped. There was something defeated in his back. He reached, suddenly, for a glass, poured himself a slug of whiskey, and stared down at it. Then pushed it away. His hand went up to his face and he seemed to brush something roughly from under his eye with a thumb. Then there were more punters, and he turned back.

"Yes, mate, what can I get ya?"

I closed the mirror with a snap. I'd seen enough.

So. Brendan Brady. Smooth operator. Womaniser.

Looks like he fishes out of the other side of the boat, then.

And there's no way that was a one off, no one's telling me that. I wasn't born yesterday. I'm not as green as I'm cabbage-looking. There's absolutely no way anyone can tell me that was a first time. A last time, with that particular young guy, maybe. But not the first.

I smile to myself.

Now, I'm not a total bitch, no matter what anyone might think about me. I've got nothing against gay people, I have no problem in that department at all. I find them rather relaxing company, and they're an important market sector for me. But this is goldust. Because he's got a secret. And because he's got something I want. A club and a phone full of contacts. Not what he keeps in his Calvin Kleins. I'm sure it's lovely, but I think it's spoken for.

I won't tell anyone. What'd be the point of that? This is my golden ticket, right? This needs some careful thought. This is going to require a conversation. And I'm very good at zipping it. Discretion is my middle name – as long as it's in my interests.

I can't help thinking it does seem a bit sad though. I can't get that image out of my mind, the sight of them locked together, not wanting to let go. The sound of raised voices, that sounded like they were breaking.

_No!_

_Go … now!_

It seems a shame that people can't just be happy. Stop fighting what they see in the mirror. Be themselves. After all, who cares, really?

But then if they were … I suppose life wouldn't be nearly as interesting, would it?

I'm interrupted in the middle of my thoughts by these two students coming up to me, guy and a girl. They're just the usual, cute but scruffy. I never can work out why students don't make more of an effort. Especially the straight ones.

"Excuse me," they ask me, nice and polite, I like that, "are you that model we saw in the papers?"

"Abso_lut_ely," I say, turning on the smile. I wonder which paper they mean, and who they saw, but it's an opening, and I never turn that down. Could have been me. Could have been anyone, really. "Did you want an autograph?" I brandish my pen.

"No …" They look a bit awkward, and my heart sinks a bit, but I keep up the smile. "We're organising this charity fund-raiser, and … we wondered if you might come to do the launch?"

Now that's a bit more like it. But I wrinkle my nose, bite my lip, look cagy.

"Any publicity?"

"Um … local TV we hope," she says, looking at the boyfriend - cos it's plain as day they're together. They're all sweet and fluffy.

I'm so there. But I have to be a bit careful, still. You know what these charity things can be like.

"What is it?" I ask them, narrowing my eyes. "Kiddies or cancer? Cos I only do kiddies or cancer. I like to keep the brand simple."

They look at each other. "It's the children's hospice," he says, looking hopeful.

"Excellent!" I say, breaking out the smile. "Ticks both boxes. When do you want me?"

And we whip out phones and filofaxes to check dates and swap numbers.

He sits, his pen poised. "How d'you spell your name?"

And I hesitate, for a second. I look at their faces, all open and eager. They seem so young, though they're not that much younger than me really. But they seem to know nothing about the world. About how hard it is, to keep this up. I wonder if I was like that, once, and I just can't remember.

Anne, I'm tempted to say. Two N's. Cos I miss Anne, sometimes, for all she was such a bore. At least I didn't always feel like I was working, when I was Anne. It's a full-time job, reinventing yourself. It can get a bit tiring.

The moment passes.

"Mitzeee," I say, smiling. "Three E's." And he writes it down.

Because everyone needs a bit of camouflage sometimes, don't they? A bit of protection, so the world can't see the real you. A way of fending off the flak, stopping people getting to you. Cover. Nothing wrong with that.

I can't afford to let my guard down. Because I've just seen what happens when you do.

And it hurts. More than you can know.


End file.
